The Observatory Becomes a Greenhouse

In the abandoned dome, tomatoes climb the brass ribs of the telescope, curling their green tendrils around constellations no one has named for hunger.

At noon, the glass sweats softly. Basil darkens the air with its peppered hymn, and bees move through the old machinery like notes finding their place in a score.

By evening, the planets return as water: round jars catching the last apricot light, a moon of cucumbers cooling on the shelf, soil breathing up the day it kept.

Whoever opens the door after rain steps into weather taught to sing indoors, where every leaf lifts its bright, listening hand and the stars have learned the weight of fruit.